


In the Morning

by TwentyoneTwelve



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Canonical Character(s), Spoilers for King of Attolia, Spoilers for Queen of Attolia, They were very lacrymose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:18:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyoneTwelve/pseuds/TwentyoneTwelve
Summary: A truth. She had lived a long time warmed only by quietly simmering rage. It had burned away many fears in the darkness, when all that was left to her was silence and recriminations. She could not have remained herself, the shadow queen, without a light source. He though, he took her fears and made them dance, then sacrificed them to his god that they might not trouble her again. Eugenides and Irene are very familar with nightmares. It's comfort that's unsettling to Attolia.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queensandkingsofattolia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=queensandkingsofattolia).



Attolia woke on a grey morning so still not even the drape half covering the open window moved. Her sleep had been undisturbed, one of those rare restful nights where even the blankets remained unrumpled. She shifted onto one hip, nightgown bunching uncomfortably under her, reaching out with one hand, a soft hum in the back of her throat. 

A peaceful night and a few hours more without interruption was a gift from the gods. She cherished them. Even more when she was the first to wake. Irene drew peace from those moments when she could watch, his restlessness only dampened not extinguished in sleep, and then wake, always with sound as well as touch, lest he flinch back, her husband.   
No curly black hair covered the pillow beside her, but then he often curled into himself, head dipping below the blanket, by practice taking the least space possible and hidden from cursory glance. 

His place in her bed was clammy, covers thrown back from nightmare soaked sheets. Irene rose hesitantly, unwilling to shatter the last illusions of a day joyfully begun as just her unarmoured self. 

Eugenides’ clothing – the simple Eddisian shirt and pants he slipped into after his attendants had retired, congratulating themselves on another day outwitting him. A day concluded by dressing him in a frilly nightshirt impossible for anyone to find their hands in and thus requiring him calling them for any personal needs in the night– was gone from its place under the hanging edge of the quilt. 

She wrapped herself in the one thing he had forgotten. He had brought it with him, showing it to her with a peacockish boy’s glee that she knew would transmute into internal malicious delight when his attendants ‘chose’ it to dress him in. The grey light leeched the colour from the bell-sleeved jacket, turning it honey-coloured, not the canary yellow that clashed so wickedly with the buttery gold-threaded edging. 

He could render himself unobservable, but not entirely invisible, and therefore he was not in the bedchamber. Everything was ordered, her desk and dressing table almost empty, the few objects in neat rows, each surrounded by its own island of space. Except one inkwell. It sat forward from the rank, turned cater-corner to the rest. Irene ran one cool finger across its blunted corner, a salute to this veteran of the wars she and Eugenides had fought gentling each other. 

Not one of their shared dreams then. With those, and thank any gods who might happen to have moments of mercy that they were growing less common, she and he tended to fold in towards each other. By common consent, they had absolved and absorbed the fearful queen and frightened boy. Mere shadow creatures those now, and if Irene sought salve for her guilt, then she found it in the same place that Eugenides found solace when he woke screaming – in the arms and gentle kisses of their spouse. 

So then, a nightmare all his own, and he had run to hide. Irene crossed to the window, hoping. No, there was no hunched silhouette on any of the visible high ledges. She looked down at the lattice of beams that provided partial shade for the terrace below, support for the upper floor, and a broad road for her husband’s excursions.   
Something bright, blood red, caught her eye, and her breath. No… No. It was just a small object on the table centred on the terrace far below her window. The first low beams of sun were just touching fingers to the terrace, set as it was above the garden and open on that side to the garden. The sunlight traced golden around the small red coruscation. No. Not mere dawn-gilt. 

Her mirror deemed her presentable, though she draped a pale green palla over her head, the thin weave covering her down to the ankles.   
Phresine woke to her touch, and with fewer grumbles than Irene expected. The older woman and the one guard gathered up on their way out of Attolia’s chambers followed at a quiet distance as Irene made her way down the still shadowed halls and out onto the terrace. 

Irene sighed. It was not quite irritated, although the morning was chill, the sunlight was causing her to squint, and her husband was tightly wrapped in her favourite deep red wool shawl – the product of a breed of goat that had been unknown in the lowlands until her marriage – as he crouched under the stone table on the terrace. She took the ruby earring from the table top and slipped it through her earlobe so that both ears were again weighed with jewels.

She bent toward him. “Will you come out?”  
His eyes were still very wide and dark, and the headshake was so tightly controlled that she wondered for a moment if she had imagined it.   
“Very well.” Her palace was not yet stirring. The vine that grew to shade the table hid the terrace from the upper floor. And this morning she had woken entirely Irene. She sank to her knees and crawled into the cave formed by the table top and the solid base. 

Eugenides was tightly curled, knees nearly tucked under his sharp chin. The shawl covered him entirely, from scarred cheek to pool around him on the tiled terrace.   
Irene intended to slip against him, providing comfort via touch. She did not yet have enough faith in her ability to soothe with words, after so many years of steel-edges. Her recoil as she leaned her cheek to the side of his head and her shoulder to his was instinctive. Eugenides was icy cold, hair and shawl dripping wet. 

Irene tugged at the shawl, peeling it away from him despite his half-hearted attempts at resistance, swaddling him in her palla, the muted blue of his lips complementing the soft green wool. Without a flinch, although it took some steeling of will, she crept against him. 

His shivering began gently, a soft trembling that grew wilder until she was unsure if he was sobbing or shaking with cold. Irene felt herself growing chilled with uncertainty, hand fluttering as it sought the best way to comfort and soothe.   
Eugenides sighed, nestling his damp head into the curve of her neck, and she felt her muscles relax in equal relief. 

He whispered something into the side of her neck, warm breath making her earring swing slightly.  
“Hmmm?” Irene raised an eyebrow.   
Eugenides shook his head, wet strands of hair lashing against her throat and shoulder.   
“A dream?” She offered. “Will you tell me about it?” 

He shook his head again, and from the corner of her eye she saw his mouth seal in a stubborn line. He twisted his hook in its screw setting, loosening and tightening it over and again. He had not had it with him when he had come to her room the previous night. Whatever he had dreamed had sent him searching for a weapon before a sanctuary. And this quiet space had not been his first choice. 

“Oh, Eugenides,” She whispered. He must have been sitting motionless on a high point of the palace to be as dew soaked as he was.   
He twitched. “You were so deeply asleep. Resting. You looked so beautiful...It seemed wrong to wake you.”   
He had always liked to watch her sleep. In those not so distant days, it had been the only time that her mask could fell away. She had been able to find peace in some of those dreams.   
“And there was nothing for you to fight against. Even you wouldn’t have been able to lash these shadows with anger and wit.” He sounded apologetic, as if his nightmares could be deemed unworthy of her concern.

A truth. She had lived a long time warmed only by quietly simmering rage. It had burned away many fears in the darkness, when all that was left to her was silence and recriminations. She could not have remained herself, the shadow queen, without a light source. Attolia bit her tongue, but whether it was to restrain or coax forth words she could not tell. She would have brought harsh bright flames to bear against his fears, whether they were shades or flesh and blood. 

He though, he took her fears and made them dance, then sacrificed them to his god that they might not trouble her again. His own he kept, bringing them out again and again to meet them eye to eye. Staring them down until they were no longer terrors. Irene knew that in the interval he suffered. Suffered in silence and stillness, withdrawing into a statue of himself. They were his few tells of true injury. 

Attolia clenched her teeth, suddenly bitter. He had been her undoing. The one man she had pleaded with and for, even made obeisance and sacrifice to gods she had rejected on his behalf, and she had no skill with comfort or protection. She felt the heat of failure rise in her chest, and breathed it out, almost surprised not to see plumes of steam in the cool morning air. 

Irene curled closer around her husband, his skin still chilled as her lips sought out his ear, his eyelid and his mouth. She hummed softly, and felt the stiffness leave his shoulders. That was her only warning before his weight slumped entirely against her chest. He was still trembling slightly, and this time she knew it for sobs as the thin nightgown bodice grew damp. The bitter taste was gone, to be replaced by her own dry mouthed fear. Because he had not run away to wrestle alone with his shadows. Rather, he had given her the means to follow him, should she care to. 

She felt tears burn her own eyes, “Thank you.” Irene whispered into her husband’s neck.

He pulled away and back, so that he could meet her gaze with eyes red from sleeplessness and crying. “Whatever for, My Queen?” One corner of his mouth turned up, and he stroked the sleeve of the bright yellow coat she wore, the smirk blooming into a sunny grin.

Irene felt her own mouth attempting to quirk in answer, and disciplined the wild urge to laugh at this ridiculous man. Her voice came out properly dry and firm. “That your trail didn’t lead me onto that lattice, or worse onto the roof. I don’t believe even the theft of my earrings would have enticed me up there.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Vienna Teng's song "Lullaby for a Stormy Night - which I may have played several times while writing this.   
> One of my favourite meta is that Attolia is Irene's mask and armour, but like most such rescue devices, it's hard to step out and be vulnerable, and to see the people you love vulnerable. Uniting your external and secret selves is something I tried to play with, although I feel at this point of their story she hasn't yet completed that process.   
> I love Eugenides and Irene in King of Attolia, and I wanted to show a moment that might have occurred between QoA and KoA, on their journey to becoming that amazing couple. 
> 
> My first time writing in my first and best beloved fandom. Please let me know what you think, and help me correct any mistakes I've made. Gosh it would have been great to have had a map of Aottolis' palace right about now!
> 
> Also, In true Writer's Window tradition, I wrote this story as a thank you gift to my Tumblr friend queensandkingsofattolia. Thank you for following me into my dark caves, and bringing me light and comfort this past month.


End file.
